So Dr. Frederick Nielsen had been a neat freak-either that, or downright compulsive. Behind the gleaming desk sat a matching rosewood credenza. On it were two wooden baskets marked in and out. A stack of unopened envelopes waited in the in basket while three additional file folders rested in the out. On top of those folders was another piece of paper, lying facedown. Using the tip of my pencil, I flipped the paper over. It proved to be an additional typed schedule, this one labeled Saturday, July 14.
Studying the schedule, I quickly jotted down the list of names and times into my notebook: 8:30 A.M., Grace Simmons, root canal. 9:00 a.m., Don Nuberg, two fillings. 10:00 a.m., Reece Bowers, cleaning. Beneath the patients’ names were two more notations, one typed and the other handwritten. The typed one said, “10:30, Larry Martin, Damm Fine Carpets.” The second, carefully printed in black ink, said nothing but “LeAnn.”
As far as Dr. Nielsen was concerned, LeAnn evidently needed no last name to identify her.
It was safe to assume she wasn’t a patient. Her name wasn’t listed on any of the Saturday file folders in the out basket. According to the schedule, LeAnn had been due in the office at twelve, well after the carpet installer was supposed to have finished with the carpet, and after Debi Rush should have gone home.
Beneath LeAnn’s name were several more notations, all in the same precise printing: shoes, groceries, tickets, flowers. Dr. Nielsen had evidently used the written schedule as a personal “to do” list as well as a tool for keeping track of his daily appointments.
Big Al stopped prowling around the desk long enough to peer over my shoulder and examine the list himself.
“What about this LeAnn?” I asked, tapping the name with the tip of my pencil. “A girl friend maybe?”
Al nodded. “Like as not. This guy was so organized he probably couldn’t get it up if it wasn’t written on the schedule.”
That made me laugh. Big Al and I had been thrown together and packaged as a temporary team right after my other partner, Detective Ron Peters, was injured. We had worked together now for several months. I was learning to enjoy the big Norwegian’s square-headed sense of humor, as well as to ignore his sometimes surly attitudes.
Debi returned to the small office, bringing with her a lanky, loose-jointed young man who looked a whole lot more like a beardless high school basketball player than someone only two years away from being a real, live, grown-up dentist. College kids seem to look younger with every passing year.
It’s one of the hazards of growing older.
“This is my husband Tom Rush,” Debi said to me, urging the reluctant young man forward. “These are the two detectives I was telling you about.”
I held out my hand. “J. P. Beaumont,” I said. “And this is my partner, Allen Lindstrom.”
Tom Rush nodded politely to each of us, but the hand he extended was cold and clammy. It was like shaking hands with a long dead mackerel.
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” Tom Rush said, shuddering with dismay. “I just can’t believe it. And like this, too. Murdered.”
“I’m sure it’s a shock to you. Murder is always a shock,” I told him. “We’ve been asking your wife some questions, and we’re not finished. Would you mind waiting outside for a few more minutes?”
Tom Rush put it in reverse and backed toward the door. “No problem,” he answered quickly. “I don’t mind at all. I’ll be right out here, if that’s okay.”
He stumbled all over himself escaping the small office. It struck me that Tom Rush was either incredibly shy or terribly nervous. I couldn’t tell which.
As soon as the door closed behind her husband, I turned back to Debi Rush. “Who’s LeAnn?” I asked.
She paused for a moment. “His wife, I guess,” she said.
“You guess? You mean you don’t know? You must be fairly new here if you don’t know his wife’s name.”
“I mean I guess they’re still married,” she added quickly. “They were separated. I don’t know if the divorce was final yet.”
“As far as you know, then, his wife would still be the next of kin?”
Debi Rush nodded.
“Any idea where we can find her?”
“No.”
“Did you see her at all on Saturday before you left?”
“No. Why would I?”
“She was due here at noon.”
“She was?” Debi Rush seemed surprised.
“And she didn’t get here before you went home?” I asked.
Debi shook her head. “No, I didn’t even know she was…”
“But that’s what it says on the schedule.”
Debi stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. A slight flush colored her pale cheeks. “Then Dr. Fred must have written it down himself.” she answered firmly. “I know I didn’t put it on the schedule, and she wasn’t here when I left.”
“You said they were separated. Is she still living in the family home?”
Debi shook her head. “No, she took the kids and moved out.”
“Kids?”
“Two of them. A boy and a girl. Seven and eight.”
“So where are they staying?”
“In one of those shelters someplace.”
“What kind of shelter?”
“You know, one of those places for battered women.”
“A domestic violence shelter? Was LeAnn Nielsen a battered woman?”
“You mean, did Dr. Fred beat her?” Debi Rush’s eyes struck sparks of anger. “Never. He wouldn’t have done that. He said her lawyer probably suggested it in hopes she’d get a better settlement.”
“Do you know which shelter? We’re going to have to locate her to tell her what’s happened.”
Debi shook her head. “I don’t have any idea. Dr. Fred didn’t either. I know he tried to find her when she first took off, but they keep the location of those places a secret.”
“Right,” I said. “Is there anyone else, any other relatives that you know of, who might be able to help us locate her?”
Debi shrugged. “His mother, maybe.”
“His mother? What’s her name?”
“Dorothy, I believe that’s her first name. She always called herself Mrs. Nielsen whenever she called here and talked to me.”
“And where does she live?”
“With Dr. Fred. She’s lived with them for several years now.”
“What’s the address?”
“Green Lake Way North, 6610. It’s one of those big old houses facing the lake.”
“You haven’t made any effort to contact her, have you?”
“No,” Debi answered.
“Do you think she’d be at home?”
Debi shook her head. “Maybe. I haven’t tried to call. One of the officers told me not to, not until someone had notified her in person.”
“Right,” I said. “Detective Lindstrom and I will be taking care of that just as soon as we finish here. Now, let’s go back to Saturday morning for a minute. What happened after the last patient left?” I glanced at my list. “Reece Bowers, I think his name was. Cleaning only.”
For some reason Debi Rush looked down at her hands and smoothed the front of her skirt. “Nothing,” she said. “Like I told you, after he left, we just waited for the installer to get here.”
“We. You mean you and Dr. Fred. Did you talk while you were waiting?”
She shrugged. “I guess,” she said, “but I don’t remember what about.”
There it was again, some tiny alarm inside me, sounding a warning, telling me that Debi Rush was lying through her teeth. But why? What was she covering up? Who was she protecting?
“Where did you wait?” I insisted, pressing for more detail. “In here? Out by your desk?”
“Here,” she answered quickly, nodding toward a short couch that sat opposite the desk. “I remember now. He dictated a couple of letters, and then we talked.”
“About?”
“Things,” she answered evasively. “He wanted to know how Tom was doing in school, stuff like that. But then as it got later and the installer still wasn’t here, he started getting more and more upset.”
“Did that seem unusual to you, for him to be disturbed because someone was late?”